


suddenly you're older

by la_victorienne



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-12
Updated: 2008-10-12
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: ianto sits alone in the dark, playing judy at carnegie hall.





	

The flat is dark when Jack comes in, silently turning the key he has only recently started carrying in the lock, creeping in without warning, and for a moment it seems like there’s no-one home, igniting a spark of panic low in his belly and sending his heart inexplicably into his throat. But to his sensitive ears comes the soft, scratchy sound of a record playing lowly, a glimmer of moonlight through Ianto’s balcony window greying the already muted colours of his living room, and as one of Judy Garland’s melancholy melodies begins, Jack perceives Ianto’s form, still and relaxed, alone in the shadows.

“Ianto?”

“Shh.” Jack obliges, stands silently, feeling awkward and on display in the open doorframe. “You can sit here,” Ianto murmurs again, one hand spreading over the cushion beside him. “Quietly.”

Ianto’s eyes are closed, his fingers drumming lightly on the sofa’s arm in tempo with the recording. It’s Judy at Carnegie Hall, rich with life and rife with soul, and Jack has a story about that night, Carnegie Hall and Judy’s sad, lovely face, but he has a sneaking suspicion Ianto doesn’t want to hear it.

_The night is bitter. The stars have lost their glitter._

It’s incredible, even to Jack; each word sung with such grace, such incredible poise, Judy’s delivery of “The Man that Got Away” brings chills to Jack’s spine, makes him live over past lovers and past loves, impossible and few. He sneaks a look at Ianto in the moonlight, wondering; his face is inscrutable, impossible for Jack to read, a reminder of just how good at hiding his young companion is – was. Will always be.

_There’s just no let up the live-long night and day._

He reaches a hand out and strokes Ianto’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, eyes softened by the muted quality of the record and the poignancy of sitting in the darkness with the pleasantly low-fidelity music washing over them. Ianto turns his face to look at Jack and there’s so much of Judy’s struggle, Judy’s faith in the poor young man’s eyes it takes his breath, makes him cup Ianto’s cheek all the more tenderly, the more closely.

_A one man woman looking for the man that got away._

When he moves again it is because Ianto moves first, leaning gently into Jack’s body, arching up to meet Jack’s mouth with his own. This part they can do; this part is easy; this part is forever. His mouth is cool and sweet, his tongue is soft and languorous, his breath is deep and slow. For the first time in his long, long afterlife, Jack has found a place he isn’t thinking of leaving.

They kiss languidly until the record is over, begging in its scratchy, whiny way to be turned to the other side. Ianto pulls away – one kiss, two, a third and then he’s gone – with what seems like regret (Jack is never sure) and removes the needle, turning off the phonograph and closing the case. He holds out a hand, an invitation for something more important than sex, and Jack knows this is the moment he can either shrug things off and maintain this casual nothingness or confront that which he – yes, even _he_ – fears more than anything else in this world. Ianto’s eyes are soft, understanding, but also shuttered, as closed from Jack as Jack is from him.

In the end it’s that look in Ianto’s eyes which makes his decision for him. He stands deliberately, walks towards Ianto slowly, and grasps the offered hand firmly. There’s a safety in Ianto’s fingers, a security in Ianto’s palm. Silent and sure, Ianto squeezes the hand and draws Jack into his body, holds him there for a moment, for the first time in a long time with the confidence to never let go. One moment, two, his mouth resting slack on Jack’s neck, just barely breathing on the tendons there, and his heart beating fast against Jack’s palm, ka-thud-thud-thud, a scudding drumbeat that Jack already knows by heart.

This would be an apt time for love, Jack thinks, and he would say so if he didn’t think the moment would be ruined. Jack hadn’t had the cause to love before the Doctor and Rose, hadn’t had the capacity after. Even if he meant it now Ianto wouldn’t believe him, so he contents himself with closing his eyes, feeling the way Ianto’s body moves with every breath, the warmth that radiates from deep inside. Ianto slides fingers around muscle to meet Jack’s hand with his own, twine fingers together, link their lives as he links their skin. This is the only love they need, the only promise to be given or received. Jack briefly kisses their interlocked knuckles and lets Ianto lead him to the bedroom.

It’s written in every inch of their connection, this all days’ love. Heart beats and breath stutters; “Please, Ianto, please” and “Oh, God, Jack.” For his part, Ianto memorizes: the feeling of Jack’s hands running up his thighs, the sharp contrast of Jack’s tan to his own pale skin. Jack merely remembers: the taste of Ianto’s sweat, the heat of Ianto’s breath in his ear. It’s their own love that emerges here, their own need and desperation and passion driving them. It’s like nothing Jack’s ever known.

The blood courses through him, divinity’s fire licking him clean, Ianto’s redemption letting him begin again. Two thousand years under cold, wet earth and it’s almost like everything is new, like he can start with a fresh slate, a new leaf in the book. Ianto sucks a bruise onto Jack’s hip, familiar and sure, and Jack realizes – he hasn’t died since that day. Since the day he came back to Ianto.

Judy Garland doesn’t matter any longer. Gwen doesn’t. Nor John, nor Rhys, nor Andy. There is no-one in the room but Jack and Ianto and the brightest love Jack has ever known, burning between them like a brilliant beacon of hope. Jack is falling, a golden Icarus tumbling from the dangerous heavens into the blissful Earth, his entire world consisting of red lips and pale skin, dark fine hair and glasses at night. Jack has never been so alive and never felt so surrounded. Sensations wash over him in flocks, too many at a time. The one thing he does not feel is – alone.

He’ll never actually say it, not to Ianto. But there are times and places yet to come where the right words might bubble forth, the right hearts might know Jack’s own. Ianto is neither the first nor the only, but he is the _best_ Jack will ever have.

“Stay with me,” Ianto pants, so close.

“I’ll never leave,” Jack replies.

It is not a lie.  



End file.
